


Brewed in Honesty (discontinued story)

by Bandicoot



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Drinking, Drunk Jacob, M/M, RothFrye, Syndicate, this is a silly fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bandicoot/pseuds/Bandicoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacob goes out drinking with a buddy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brewed in Honesty (discontinued story)

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a one-shot, but split into 2 chapters (that's the plan anyway). Still working on chapter 2, but it's taking a while, hence why this chapter is so short. Inspired after a certain something, but spoilers. :)  
> P.S I've never been drunk, nor do I drink a lot because eh, but it's still fun to write about.  
> Note: Piont = pint, but drunk and in a London accent, in case there is some confusion.

Another pint is handed into Jacob's awaiting palm by the man behind the bar. It is his fourth one tonight. The last three had been paid for, courtesy of his own pocket, the first paid by a gentlemen known as Steven at Jacob's side. A contender in one of Topping's rings whose nose met with Jacob's bloody fist. A wager had been set that the loser buy the other a pint. Later that night, the man was parting with his money.

“Yer gut me good didn'tja? Righ' o' me nose. Bleedin' hurt that. Yer a good fighte' J-Jacob, an' a good bloke,” Steven spoke, his slurred voice almost struggling to keep up with his thoughts. Jacob laughs, ready to down his next pint, swaying slightly, and secretly wanting to use Steven's shoulder as support. Pride told him that this is a bad idea.

“Not s' bad yerself Stevie. I 'ppreciate th' piont,” he replies, drinking himself into the unknown.

Pride loses out on him a little later, as the comfort of that shoulder is just too much, and Jacob's ungracefully faceplants into it. He rubs his nose into the fabric, oblivious to the look Steven is giving him.

 “Alrigh' Jacob, we oughta ge' yer home, right? Where'dja live?” He gently pushes Jacob away to stop any chance of a nap taking place, and God forbid if Jacob decides to make himself comfortable in the middle of the floor.

“Uh... train.”

“Train?”

A stupid grin paints itself on Jacob's face, his eyes turning somewhat mischievous. He sticks his hands out on their in front of him, palms and fingers completely flat. Then the rotation happens, and the train noises follow.

Steven rolls his eyes.

“I know wha' a train is Jacob, bu' where is i'?”

The hands stop, perhaps relocating the movements to Jacob's brain as he thinks about the question.

“Somewhere... in London...” he murmurs.

“Great...”

Jacob starts to groan, suddenly feeling lost as the thought of sleeping in this rain does not comfort him.

“Roth.”

Steven's attention is brought back around.

“Who?”

Jacob straightens himself up and begins to head for the door, leaving a confused Steven in the bar until the man catches up after him, slinging an arm around Jacob's shoulders to support him.

“I guess we goin' t' this Roth's place eh? Where is i'?”

Jacob forms the name in his head, but the letters are scattered about like a jigsaw puzzle.

“Abralmha...” he mumbles.

“Abral- Oh, th' Alhambra! I kno' th' place. Not to' far from 'ere neiver. C'mon on then Jacob lad.”

They walk.


End file.
